


Paladin

by Zarathastra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beware spoilers for S3, Brief mention of past drug use, Consensual BDSM, D/s relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mycroft is one of the good guys - no really he is, Some very naughty things, Voyeurism, bad language, brothers at odds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarathastra/pseuds/Zarathastra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who’s the last person you’d expect to cast in the role of a White Knight on a charger, dashing to the rescue?  Technology can be a wonderful thing.  It can also be a bit of a pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paladin

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the warnings before proceeding. If anyone thinks they may be offended by what the warnings indicate maybe you’d be more comfortable passing this story over and finding something more to your liking. It’s labelled ‘explicit’ for a reason. Apologies for any remaining mistakes.

She called herself Anthea.  It wasn’t her name.

She tapped discreetly on the door of the inner sanctum and waited for him to invite her in.  “We’ve done it sir,” she said after waiting for him to acknowledge her presence.  “We’ve managed a successful repair and upgrade to the security system in 221b.  It’s been tested and the engineers confirm it’s working to optimum standards.”

Mycroft inclined his head.  “And my brother and Doctor Watson?”

“Will be none the wiser, Sir.  At present they’re attending a crime scene.”  She managed to make that sound like a crime in itself.

“Of course they are,” Mycroft said, completely deadpan, stifling the broad smile his mouth wanted to curl into, “so the images will no longer be an unclear, flickering, black and white mishmash?” 

As a child he’d always hated black and white films.  Life wasn’t presented in black and white, unless one had the misfortune to be born colour-blind.  It had been a long time until he’d understood the concept of the evolution of film history and the advances in technology which allowed for colour film.  

“Oh, no, sir,” Anthea said.  “They will be quality images, crisp and unmistakable, in full colour with enhanced digital sound.  There is some sample footage ready for you now, available any time you want to view it.  You can control it from your mobile phone, if you wish, or from any device you happen to be using.  And they are all secure, of course.”

“Splendid.”  He would certainly appreciate seeing images of 221b in colour from now on, that was certain.  Much less strain on the eyes.  “Thank you.”

“Sir.”  Anthea smiled and left the room.

 ~~~

Although he was largely unaware of it, a great sense of relief had crept into Sherlock’s consciousness.  For a few weeks now things could almost have been described as ‘back to normal’.  It was a warm, balmy summer, so there were always crime scenes to dissect due to the heat, which always served to bring out the worst in people.  Day after day John trailed after Sherlock, suitably dressed to Sherlock’s satisfaction, and the results were rewarding, both in terms of the investigation and in providing what John needed in the way of adrenaline generators.

Plus, it was immensely pleasing to Sherlock to see how much discomfort John was in, performing the necessary medical checks on various unfortunate victims.  He would frequently stop and take deep breaths, trying not to wriggle like a little boy, or suddenly give a muffled squeak of discomfort, leading Lestrade to wonder if John was sickening for something.

“You alright, mate?” Greg had asked today and John had nodded wordlessly, trying to catch his breath and give himself a good shake before he returned his attention to his professional duties.  It would be okay, all he had to do was wait.  He was well used to waiting by now. 

He’d been assured that Sherlock wasn’t leaving again, not like before, no rooftop dives and empty graves, but he couldn’t quite let himself believe it, the pain may be easing but in many ways he was still waiting for the hammer to fall.  If Sherlock was out of his sight for any length of time the anxiety would come flooding back until he heard the street door open and life begin again.  All in all life had become a little complicated as he tried Sherlock’s patience to breaking point, discovering that his plan to keep Sherlock out of danger by offering himself unreservedly had backfired on him. 

Sherlock would give John what he wanted, mostly when he wanted it, but he also let John know quite clearly that it was John himself who needed such demanding attention and close proximity; just the way Sherlock gave it to him, thus taking away John’s notion of authority. 

John tried to be angry about that but ultimately found it didn’t even matter.  The feeling of being made to wait while Sherlock satisfied himself was so unexpectedly compelling and such a massive turn on for him that he craved it now and didn’t really know how he’d managed without it.  And more often than not Sherlock was still leaving him behind to fend for himself, showing him the error of his ways and the futility of flying in the face of his authority.

When Sherlock made signs of leaving without him, even though he knew it would only be for a short time, John would automatically go into the routine to make him stay, showing himself brazenly, reminding Sherlock how delectable taking him apart could be, offering himself without embarrassment. 

Before the event that John still thought of as ‘The Fall’ that would have been just fine.  They’d made things work back then.  He’d carried on with the parts of his life that had nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes and when they came together again it had been just fine, quiet sometimes, friendly and comfortable, or manic and spiky.  But they’d been fine.

Afterwards, after the grief and the abandonment, after he lived his half-life desperately trying to find something to replace the irreplaceable, ultimately finding that it had all been for nothing, John still found the way things were now very hard to accept.

It wasn’t fair of him, he knew that.  Sherlock had apologised almost non-stop since his return, had done almost everything John wanted, when he wanted it.  Did that mean that secretly John was really the one in charge?  He thought he knew that from somewhere.  Thinking about it now though he didn’t really believe it, although he gave himself a brief moment to do just that, just for the feeling it gave him.  What he had given Sherlock was everything he was; it was as simple as that.

 ~~~

It had taken a long time today before they could return from the crime scene - John’s fault, of course.  Sherlock felt the irritation rise in him.  He’d told John sharply to leave the cut on his forehead alone but the stupid man insisted on treating him there in the street while he was trying to deduce, the gentle fingers trying to determine the extent of the injury feeling like butterfly wings beating against his face making him desperately want to bat them away.  As a result, the carefully assembled crime scene in his mind palace fell apart and he was left with only the reality, which was far more substandard than the one he’d been constructing in his inner London.

Three murders, or was it only two…?  No way of finding out from the meagre clues presented.

Were these Smiths all from the same family or was it just an unhappy coincidence of surname?  No papers on any of the victims, so way of knowing without substantial research.

Why did they all have to be Smiths?

“We need to get back to the flat, I need to do some research,” he said.

John was evidently still trying to put his undoubted discomfort to one side and act like a doctor in the middle of a crime scene, examining the evidence, which was made a lot more difficult with not only the usual orange rod of beads filling his passage but also the tight ring of black leather surrounding his genitals, both of which had been fitted with the intention of keeping him in line.  Well, that had worked spectacularly well, hadn’t it?  Perhaps it was time to up his game, Sherlock thought, and show John what happened to a submissive who went around imagining he was a free agent.

“Come, John,” he said and stalked off to hail a cab.  And while John might normally have giggled in mocking amusement at the unintentional double-entendre, this time he knew he was in deep water…deep something, anyway.  He was for it when they got home.  He just knew it.

 ~~~

In this place, they were usually safe.  Not always, but more often than not when they closed the door behind them they could be who they wished to be.

John didn’t feel particularly safe just at this moment.  He knew Sherlock was annoyed with him.  Useless to point out that if he’d just let John do his job he could have carried on pontificating to his heart’s content.

“Do you have a headache?” he asked, noting the strain in Sherlock’s face.

“Only the one you’ve given me,” Sherlock snapped.  “Do you want to be invited to crime scenes in the future or do you have a hankering to remain behind?  It’s your choice.”

“Sherlock, I’m a doctor.”

“Yes, I had grasped that,” the younger man said.  “An extremely annoying one.”

“I just…”

Sherlock looked at him distantly and pointed to the floor.  “Down,” he said.

There was no hesitation at all.  John’s eyes closed and he dropped to his knees on the lino in front of Sherlock’s chair.  Sherlock brushed past him to seat himself and beckoned John closer.

He undid the button and unfastened the zip fastener on John’s jeans and burrowed his hand inside, placated by the lack of underwear.

“Well, at least you did something right,” he said.

Holding John’s prick in his hand, he gave it a good feel.  The erect, solid thing had a strong pulse.  Well, of course it did.  It matched the beat of John’s heart.  It was warm and dry at first, and then it was warm and wet.  That black bit of leather was a wonderful thing Sherlock thought as he rhythmically squeezed John’s cock gently to make him moan and pushed it back inside his jeans, leaving the two sides open so that the swollen flesh peeped suggestively through.

“Come along, John,” he said, “you’re getting slow.  You’re expected to know my wishes without being told.  I don’t want to have to do all the work for you, that’s not the way it happens.”

John knew this bit by rote.  He took no time at all to remove his clothes and sit back on his heels, waiting for what came next.  It wasn’t his place to worry about what that might be.

Sherlock disappeared from his sight and presently John felt slim, strong fingers pushing him down gently and probing at his rear.

“You might want to adopt a more relaxed position," Sherlock instructed, not unkindly.  “I’m going to remove the beads.”

John moved forward and leaned down on his folded arms, presenting his arse gratefully.  He gave the beads up slowly, moaning as they slipped out one by one, stretching his rim as they came free.  More welcome than the ache they left behind was the slick feeling as Sherlock’s fingers prepared him with a generous spurt of lube.

“You need to tell me if it’s too much,” Sherlock said, knowing that he wouldn’t.  “This may chiefly be for my benefit, but I’m not a monster.  I would like it if it were enjoyable for you, too.  If not, you must tell me.”

John nodded.

“I mean it,” Sherlock said, and pushed the rod of beads into John’s hand.  “Indicate by dropping the beads on the floor.”

John nodded and gripped the slick rod in his hand, then braced himself against the push of Sherlock’s erection opening him up and burrowing in.

“I’ll take the ring off later and do this again,” Sherlock said softly into his right ear.  “You’ll like that, won’t you?”

John pushed back against him and whimpered.

“Yes, I thought so,” Sherlock smiled.  “Something to look forward to.”

 ~~~

Somewhere between lunch and afternoon tea Mycroft’s energy began to flag.  The strict diet ensured that he couldn’t touch those little French fancies, lying there on that paper doily on the dessert plate next to his teacup, although he loved them, loved feeling the fondant icing melt and the cake moisten as they intermingled in his mouth.  But having one of them now was impossible and he knew it.

It was a matter of principle now, he was not going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of telling at a glance how much weight he’d put on again.  So, there was only one thing for it.  He would have to distract himself some other way as he sipped his afternoon tea.

Oh, who was he trying to hoodwink, he wondered?  It was a foolish man who tried so hard to fool himself.  He only wanted to test his new surveillance cameras and he was the British Government was he not.  There was no-one to stop him.  Very well then, he thought, and began to familiarise himself with the procedure for viewing the footage.

 ~~~

Ten minutes later, he was staring at the screen of his laptop with his breath nearly caught in his throat and his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

It certainly was a good picture, he thought absently with the part of his brain that was still working.  He could see every line on John Watson’s face, every hair on his head.  Every bead of sweat as it ran down his body.  John was panting, pushing his hips back to meet the thrusting behind him as the man kneeling at his back pushed into him.

John was groaning but the sound couldn’t really be heard, in spite of the state of the art sound system.  It was muffled by the large gag in his mouth.  His eyes were closed in bliss and by the way he was moving he was evidently trying to make the other man go faster.

“Patience, John,” said his lover, and Mycroft waited in dismay as the camera slowly moved up John’s kneeling body to reveal that the lover was none other than –

Sherlock smiled into the camera.  “Hello, Mycroft,” he said, and kept on moving.

 ~~~

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked back over his shoulder as the living room door opened abruptly.

“Ah, Mycroft,” he said, putting a grounding hand on John’s back to keep him in place.  “I thought you would be red-faced with the exertion caused by your haste to arrive but on the contrary you look a little pale.  I assume that’s due to your vampirism.  It’s not yet dusk, you must really have rushed to get here.”  He gave a minute thrust with his hips that pushed his cock forward into the warm, wet hole he was lodged in.

Mycroft glowered, trying to cover his acute embarrassment and not look at John at the same time.  “Don’t be absurd.”

Sherlock kept up a light rocking motion as he spoke.  “What are you doing here anyway, Mycroft?  Something urgent you wish to impart from Her Majesty?”

Mycroft drew himself up to his full height and looked Sherlock straight in the eye.  “I received word that John was here alone and that he was being attacked,” he lied.  It was still remotely possible that Sherlock didn’t know about the cameras and that his twisted smile to the lens had been a coincidence.

“Attacked?  Really?  So, you came charging in to the rescue in person instead of sending a team of your minions, as if John were a damsel in distress.  Which makes me …” he raised his eyebrows and considered for a moment, “…the villain of the piece?  Perhaps I should grow a long, curly moustache?  John would like that, wouldn’t you, John?” he added suggestively, smiling down at the hunched man.

John glared at him and then thought it through, dipping his head to smile secretly to himself.  ‘Oh, yes,’ he thought.

Mycroft didn’t know where to put his face.  And Sherlock mentally chalked up the exchange as a victory for him.  Not that he was keeping score at all.

“If you’d care to stay, John and I can demonstrate some of the techniques I’ve learned,” Sherlock invited.  “They satisfy John very well.  Don’t they, John?”

There was no reply from John.

“You’d be quite welcome,” Sherlock was saying, “I don’t think we’ll be good for too much more here, but I still have to ensure that John is satisfied as well, which takes a little longer.  Would you like to see me come inside him?  Or demonstrate how I bring him to orgasm?”

“No!” Mycroft shouted.

“Are you sure?”

Mycroft knew then that if it hadn’t been before, it was now time to leave.  He was doing no good here, quite the opposite in fact, but he felt it was his obligation, even in these embarrassing circumstances, to make it clear to John that he was just the latest in a long line of distractions that Sherlock had employed over the years, that his fidelity was completely out of place and that one day he would find himself superseded by someone or something else.  He was just the latest drug of choice.

“I admire your loyalty, John,” he said gently.  “But even you must see how much it’s misplaced.  You shield him from the sharp corners of his own mind.  You’ve known this from the start.  But you can’t be his buffer forever.  You need to take care of yourself because even with the best of intentions, he can’t do it.  Take it from one who knows.

“You’ve done all this to keep him here with you, giving of yourself so completely that he has no reason to even try to become a better man.  It’s time to be a little selfish, Dr Watson.”

“John has already made up his mind,” Sherlock told him.  “Don’t imagine that what he does here is not by his own wishes or consent.  He understands now that even if I leave him alone, I will be coming back.  He has learned to trust me.”

Mycroft gave him a sharp glance.  “Then he’s a fool, Sherlock.  I never took him for one before but just looking at him now I can see how much he’s always wanted to be someone’s plaything, it’s just a happy circumstance for you that he turned out to be yours.  How opportune for you both.”  He smiled a quick, wicked smile down at John.

Looking at his brother from his place over John’s position hunched over on all fours Sherlock stood a little taller and took up the responsibility.  He had caused this.  It was time to be there for John.  He didn’t move his head; just cast his gaze up to Mycroft’s face.

“You’re not allowed to make fun of him,” Sherlock said coldly, leaning down to lay his hand on John’s shoulder and squeezing it lightly.

John was flushed from his hairline down to his chest.  He was already totally mortified not only by his explicit position but by Mycroft’s words and the truth of his perception.

Mycroft kept his gaze away from John in his straitened circumstances and regarded his brother instead.  “Because only you are allowed to humiliate him, is that it?” he asked.

“No,” Sherlock said.  “No-one is allowed to humiliate him, especially you, brother.  After all the service he has helped me to provide to you and to Her Majesty’s Government, not to mention the invaluable service you can see he renders to me, he’s deserving of your respect.  Whatever he wants now from me, or from you, he has the right to.  He’s earned it.”

John looked awkwardly up at him, saying nothing, allowing things to be as they would, taking in Sherlock’s words and cherishing them and in that moment believing them completely.

“So you see, Mycroft, there’s no coercion here.  Anything that’s done in this flat, by anyone, to anyone, is done on both sides with entirely informed consent.  So there was really no need for you to come ‘wading in’ to the rescue.

“There are two perverse people living here, not one.  And somehow they found each other.  And all they ask,” He added a little sharply yet in honest entreaty, “is to be left in peace.” 

The sincerity was quickly subsumed by a feral grin.  “Now, if you don’t mind, as you can see I have a needy submissive to finish servicing.  Unless, as I’ve already offered, you’d like to stay and see for yourself how much John enjoys being taken.  But of course you’ve already seen it, haven’t you?  Repeatedly I would imagine, before you even got here.  That must’ve been a bit boring.  Would  you like to join in the live action this time?  John won’t mind.  Well, he won’t have much choice, but I’m assured by the contents of his emails to his various ex-girlfriends that he would quite enjoy being observed from time to time.  What words did you use to Jeanette, John?  ‘Up for anything’ I think it was.  No wonder she eventually left you.  I think you scared her.  You weren’t dreary enough for her.”  He gave a forceful thrust with his hips.  “I must say I find you quite entertaining, sometimes,” he added.

In the same split-second John gave a squeak of protest and Mycroft gave a wordless, choked off refusal and crossed the room to the door, deliberately not looking at John. 

Mycroft had thought he’d stumbled onto an ambiguous situation but it wasn’t only Sherlock’s words which convinced him that John actually wanted this.  There was a look on Watson’s face as he gazed awkwardly up at Sherlock which demonstrated complete devotion and total trust.  Mycroft had deduced in the very first moment he’d met John just how much the doctor had fallen under his brother’s spell and how much he would come to love him and he saw it plainly now.  There was obviously very little that John wouldn’t do for Sherlock and there was no real coercion involved.  Impossible as it was for him to believe, John was deeply in love with his brother.  Far be it from him to question the nature of that love or how John chose to express it.

But Sherlock was still talking.  That, Mycroft decided, trying to find something to think of other than the sight John was displaying, was his brother’s super-power; the ability to keep talking even when no-one was listening.

“It may not be quite as glamorous as taking down a small country but it’s sufficient for me and, I assure you, quite satisfying for John as well,” Sherlock said, indicating the open door while keeping a weather eye open for Mrs Hudson.  He didn’t want to give her a heart attack.  “Good day, Mycroft.”

Mycroft paused in the doorway.  “As John has indicated that the circumstances he is currently in are being managed with his consent I will leave you to your own devices,” he said.  “Just know this – I will be kept informed as to your movements and any sign of abuse displayed toward John at your hand will be dealt with swiftly and severely.”

“That is something you’ll never see, Mycroft,” Sherlock told him firmly, “not least because it will never happen.  Now, if you’ve said all you came to say I’ll wish you good afternoon.”

“If there is ever anything I can do for you John, you only need to ask,” Mycroft said, and left the room, banging the door behind him.

“There.  That should keep him away for at least a week,” Sherlock said cheerfully and recommenced thrusting.

 ~~~

Outside the closed door of the flat, Mycroft allowed himself a heavy sigh.  He took a moment to imagine what might have happened at another time, in another place, perhaps if his dashing to the rescue had saved John from the clutches of someone else, some vile creature like James Moriarty perhaps.  But that idle fantasy was for moments alone in his bed.  He took a last look at the John he’d placed there on the floor in his own unpretentious Mind Manor House, so different from Sherlock’s overblown Palace, at what John obviously wanted from his brother.  It startled him to realise that there was nothing John resembled so much at that moment as a goldfish.

Yes, he could leave his vague, formless daydreams behind.

He closed the street door quietly behind him, left the building and climbed into the back of his Government-issue car.  It was for the best, he thought.

 ~~~

John had imagined that as soon as Mycroft quit the room that Sherlock would finish his enthusiastic bonking.  But it didn’t last. 

‘Talk about a mood killer,’ John thought as Sherlock carefully withdrew, removed the trappings of his submission, helped him out of the room to lie down next to him on the bed in Sherlock’s own room and slid one warm arm around his shoulders, gathering John in to his side.

John waited patiently.  There was still something in the air and if he just waited it would all just tumble out into the open.

Sherlock’s next words came reluctantly from the depths of his heart.  “Why won’t he trust me?”

“He has good intentions,” John said quietly from his position laying half on and half off Sherlock’s chest.  It was clear to him how much Mycroft Holmes loved his brother and wished for a truce, if not a reconciliation.  “He thought you were attacking me, I guess.”  He grinned to himself in amusement at the thought of that.  “Or maybe not,” he added, seeing that Sherlock wasn’t even listening to him.

“But he obviously thinks I’m still using,” Sherlock went on starkly.  “Doesn’t the idiot understand?  I’ll never have to do that again.”  ‘ _Because of you’_ , he wanted to add but didn’t.  It came out instead as “Because of the work.”

John heard the unhappiness in his voice.  He was only a GP, he thought.  He didn’t know how to mend broken fences.  Arms, ankles, and some heads, but not fences.  He pressed his lips to the warm skin under his mouth.  “Let me help,” he said, laying his hand on Sherlock’s forearm, and Sherlock met his gaze steadily, knowing that John was offering what he thought was the only thing he could give.  And that was okay, in the absence of any other offer he’d take that and it wouldn’t actually be second-best.

“John,” he said softly, kissing the eager mouth and manoeuvred John to lie on his back.

The preparation was fast but it was thorough.  A few minutes later Sherlock was peppering kisses on the mouth he was offered and giving John the grounding he needed.  Giving them both the grounding they needed, he admitted.

“That’s it,” Sherlock said softly, pulling John’s thighs apart lightly but inescapably and coaxing him to wrap his legs around his Dom’s waist because he knew it was something John had been longing to do but had never yet been allowed to.  He pushed into John’s waiting entrance and it closed around him in a tight embrace.

There was a deep groan from John and Sherlock paused in his way in and leaned over to pick up one of the objects which he had discarded. 

“She’ll hear,” he whispered and held up the gag in front of John’s face, waiting for John to open his mouth to accept it before fastening it at the back of his head, trying not to catch any strands of John’s lengthening hair in the strap.  John’s still rock-hard prick lay against his belly, waiting, as John was, to be cared for.

“Ah, John, you look so debauched wearing that,” he said.  His mood was recovering, along with his erection.  “And this.”  He replaced the leather ring and slipped his hand down to caress John’s bound genitals, smiling at the muffled little squeak of pleasure he coaxed from John’s crammed mouth.  “I’ve seldom wanted you so badly.  Thank you,” he added in sincere gratitude for what he was being offered and the reason why it was on offer.  It may not have been the correct etiquette, but it was the right thing to say, he thought.

With the gag in his mouth there was nothing that John could say to that but he started breathing through his nose and tightened his legs around Sherlock’s slim waist, taking the encroaching cock that bit deeper, wishing he were tall enough to reach his legs up to rest right on those well-shaped shoulders.  He might have been able to do it if he were ten years younger.  Maybe it would be possible if he started working out, he thought.

Sherlock growled deep in his throat at the feel of John’s tight passage and started a slow, steady push and pull, in and out, relishing John’s nasal huffing and the grip of his thighs.  He leaned down to kiss John’s forehead.  “Let’s just hope Mycroft is watching,” he whispered in his sub’s ear.

That had been startling, endlessly embarrassing, but also kind of sweet, John thought.  Mycroft had imagined he was coming to the rescue, ready to defend John against his own brother. 

John was going to set aside the fact that if Mycroft hadn’t been eavesdropping in the first place he would never even have known anything about it.  He was going to tell Mycroft how not-good it was to burst in on other people’s private fucking – uh, lovemaking - however they chose to go about it.  Besides, he didn’t need a White Knight dashing to his rescue.  All he needed was what it seemed he already had. 

Sherlock Holmes.

End

 


End file.
